Complementary Colours
by redherring321
Summary: John Watson is greeted with the sight of the new pupil, Sherlock Holmes. But as intoxicating as the boy may be, there are childhood memories which cannot be forgotten, and an already damaged relationship... which might just grow stronger than either of the boys had anticipated. So, is the poison worth the heat of the fire? (Johnlock, and Teenlock / Teen!Lock) I hope you enjoy! :)


**WARNING: **The first chapter of this fic contains a _very _breif and _very _inexplicit rape-ish scene (hence the 'Mature') which I am so sorry for but it's necessary for the story line, and_ will not happen again!_

* * *

**_Smile at strangers and you just might change a life -Dr. Steve Maraboli_**

* * *

_~John Watson~_

So, imagine this:

You're in class, and as always, your forehead is pressed against the desk and your brain is threatening to shut down. On the verge of slipping into a deep, deep, coma, you hear the teachers words ringing in the back of your head. _"I'd like you all to welcome our new student." _You look up out of a vague sense of curiosity, and standing in front of you is your favorite character, from the fairy tale you always dreamed of as a child.

The myth. The fable.

And the only empty seat in the room is next to you.

Now, generally a person would think, "My quest is about to begin." But if you were in my shoes, you would be pissing yourself in fear and shame and regret. Because bloody hell, if I could believe that this boy wouldn't recognize me, I would, but I can't. If I could believe that he would forgive me, I would gladly.

I can't.

* * *

_I had him: against a tree, with a knife to his throat, his hands pinned above his head. His body shook, his lips curved into a frown, yet the glint of fear in his eyes was nowhere to be found. "Let me go."_

_"Give me your money."_

_"I'm warning you." The boy spoke steadily, again presenting no fear whatsoever. "Let me go."_

_"Or what?" I spat at his face._

_"Or my brother will get you hung so easily it isn't even funny."_

_I snorted in response. "And what is your brother? The British Government? Besides, there is no death penalty in this country."_

_A sad smile was all the answer I received for the first half of my inquiry, and I wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Would the public really have to know?"  
_

_I wasn't sure how to respond to that either._

_It wasn't the words he used that scared me: it was the way he managed to show everything- hatred and anger and strength- through his piercing eyes, that seemed to work their way straight through me, like a bullet to the brain. For a moment I let my guard down, and the boy was quick. With a swift knee to the stomach and fist to the jaw, I found myself on damp ground, tears stinging in my eyes to hide the figure straddling my helpless body, and skimming the knife across my neck. My face felt wet, and I turned my head to witness my own blood trickling onto the grass. _

_"It looks nice together, the red and green. They're complimentary colours."_

_I glanced up to see his eyes on mine again, like needles- or snakes, drawing everything out of you until you're a white and grey, brittle corpse. And just as quickly as it came, I felt the anger begin to fade, and something else taking it's place._

_Wait, is that _pity_?"_

_"What?" I growled, knocking the boy out of his daze. He was still pinning me down, and I couldn't bare the fact that I couldn't even push him away when he wasn't making any effort to stay put. I felt heat rising up my face as it scrunched up into a scowl._

_"How much do you need?"_

_Stunned into a sudden silence, I looked back into the boys eyes. They were darker now, though I couldn't work out why at the time. I felt both of my hands come loose, and the handle slid carefully into them both. He then lifted himself upwards, still straddling me, sitting upright on my stomach as to keep his security. This time I lay numbly on the ground, knife in hand, as the boy reached into his back pocket. "If I had deduced everything about your family sooner, I would have just given you the money. I'm sorry."_

_He lifted his hand to show me one-twenty and one-ten pound note, his eyes still locked with mine as a tear escaped down my cheek. The dark haired boy smiled softly as he carefully wiped it away. He took my hand in his, and the paper notes were in the palm of my hand. It was as simple as that._

_I stayed there with the boy as I sobbed into his chest, and he sat on my lap, still wiping away the tears and blood from my red face. Nothing was said; there was nothing either of us needed to hear. Because at that moment, that boy was the only thing I had, and I was content with crying my eyes dry. It wasn't as if I could do it anywhere else._

* * *

My face rested in my hands for the majority of the lesson, until it was essential that I write notes. Biology has always been something of interest to me, and so I knew mostly everything I was taught already. Well, I hoped so, at least. I remembered the feeling of those eyes, but they seem to have grown stronger in the past five years; they burned me to the ground where I sat. Despite even this, I had a distraction up my sleeve (quite literally). My shoulder was feeling particularly crappy today, and so I was in immense pain throughout the lesson. Torn between '_THIS HURTS TOO MUCH I WANT TO DIE_' and '_IF YOU GIVE ME ONE MORE GLANCE YOU'RE GOING TO KILL ME_', I turned my own eyes to the front of the classroom, my attention unable to follow.

When the bell finally chimed I was wincing in pain, and the boy beside me wasn't even registering anymore. I clutched the scar in my palm, rocking back and fourth in my chair violently. "John?" I heard the voice- Miss. Hooper. "John Watson?"

Soft fingers scraped my neck, and there was another speaking in my ear. I couldn't put voice to face. It was too deep and raspy for anyone else's. "Your name's John, right?"

I nodded vigorously, and a finger rested under my chin, forcing it upwards and towards... him. Oh. For a few short seconds I lost sight of my pain as I saw the boy again for the first time, his eyes light and fierce, his hair darker and curls looser than previously, admiring the way his skin looked a deathly white in the sunlight, no imperfections to be seen. But then I felt the shock again, and it raced through my body, rattling my bones and hurting my head. I leaned forward subconsciously as if crippling over, but found that my head was being held up by the other boy's. Nose to nose. Forehead to forehead.

"John," the boy breathed onto my lips as I panted. "What do you need?"

The room had gone quiet, and buzzing began as my eye sight faded. "I-I'm going to..."

Falling is just like flying. You feel just as sick, and just as disoriented. But more importantly, you can feel the adrenaline rush from inside you, the blood pumping through your veins as if your whole body is screaming at you to wake up, to no prevail. Voices are all I have now- so far away. So far.

_"Everybody get back-"_

_"John? John, can you hear me? Somebody get the nurse! John-"_

_"I'll take him, Miss."_

_No!_

_No. Don't take me away._ I wasn't scared for the reason I should be: that if I was sent home it would only be another day alone with my drunk sister and half-dead mother. No, it was because, if that really was the person I think I heard, I am certain that I will not make it to the Nurses Office.

I'd rather be at the Nurses Office. I'd rather be at home.

Help me.

* * *

Awaking in a toilet cubicle naked and ankles handcuffed to the wall is not the best of experiences, especially when you end up face to face with... well, I'm not sure what he is. A psychopath, that's for certain. It seems like everyone I know is one of those.

"It's Johnny!" he exclaimed, over exaggerating his astonishment. I rolled my eyes as if to say _"You don't bother me," _but the pain in my shoulder was unbearable and I winced slightly- only slightly, but more than enough to be noticeable. I needed my prescription.

"I-I need-"

"Poor little Johnny boy," he pouted, ridiculously prolonging his vowels as if he were singing. I felt his hand on my shoulders, and squeeze. I let out a yelp, but the strength of his grip didn't even waver. And then more pain. My neck, as he bit deeply into it, drawing blood, and another miserable sound from my mouth echoed around the confined space.

Jim never even bothered me until he found me in a street one day, badly injured after an attempt at earning some much needed cash. The image of prostitution quickly turned into a gang rape, and I was left in a tip to rot. But then I was found by this boy: Moriarty, he had called himself. And he took me back to his house, and let me sleep in his bed in his pajamas wrapped in his arms as I sobbed in pain and embarrassment. The next day he gave the money I needed, and told me, hand to heart, _"If there is anything you need, you should know that I will always gladly take on your services."_

And so I turned from prostitute to something more like an escort. Everyday I would go to his house, and he would whisper empty words such as, _"adore"_ and_ "beautiful"_ and _"love"_. Now I know better. I've been taught about relationships, the unrealistic bases of one: kindness, responsibility, affection, trust. It isn't all about sex, and most certainly not about lies and pain and fear. When I learned the truth about Jim, I learned how to grow up.

_He wants me to cry, _I realized. _He wants me to show vulnerability, and fear. _I could see the way his pupils were small and scrutinizing, like a surgeon ready to dissect my feeble body, and leaving only humiliation where there was once pride and joy. Thankfully, I have always been a brilliant actor.

I forced my eyes open for so long there were tears running down my face, and I sobbed loudly. "Please stop! I beg you-" But before I knew it there were lips on my own and a tongue gagging me as it forced it's was down my throat, blocking out my squeals of pain. Then I felt his hand remove, and I tensed, knowing fully well what was coming. A fist found it's way to the prominent red circle marking my shoulder, and this time I screamed for real into his mouth as I attempted to shuffle away, into the corner of the cubicle, but I was grabbed quickly by my waist and was forced to stand, my chest against the wall. I heard a zip behind me and then more pain as he found his way into me.

I was shaking in fear, and was on the verge of blacking out again. No that it mattered to Jim. I didn't doubt that he would fuck my rotting corpse if he had to. I felt a nuzzling by my ear, and the sickening words dug themselves into my brain like daggers. "It's okay, Johnny. I'll look after you while your gone..."

* * *

When my consciousness finally found me again, I was on the floor of the cubicle. Alone. My clothes had been put back onto me to cover the bruises and bites Jim had painted onto my skin, but despite the pain all I could feel was my wet boxers, fresh cum still dripping out of my rectum, and my back pocket stuffed with notes.

_This_, I realized, _is what I am. A sex slave. A toy. A rag doll. _I didn't want to believe that all I was made for was to be used to please the evil souls of the world. So then, what am I?

I find my mind drifting back to that day as a child, of the tall, dark haired boy who helped me. If it wasn't for him, I'd be dead. So why was his purpose to save me if I'm _not going to do anything with my goddamned life-_

I kicked the wall so hard it send a current of pain through my shoulder, and I grimaced until the flash of electricity had vanished from my nervous system and only the increasingly painful shoulder and added injuries to the back, hips, chest and legs continued to press into my skin and muscle and bone.

_"I don't exactly like my family either, but what we aren't lacking in is money. You can have as much of that as you need from me."_

_"I-I'm sorry. I... thank you so much-"_

_"Calm down. It's fine now. It's all fine."_

What did he mean, _"I don't exactly like my family either"_? Maybe just a silly feud between siblings or something. But maybe...

I find myself standing, and limping to the doorway in a sudden rush of adrenaline. That boy was the friendly stranger who, by chance (and I'd say destiny, but only idiots believe in that crap), turned my life around for the better. Now, he may just be more than that. And if I could help it, he certainly would be.

* * *

_Do not fall over._

_Do not fall over._

I didn't fall over. I got to the classroom without even a thought of stopping. If there was even the slightest chance that _he_ would be in my next lesson, I was going to die before I ceased moving towards him. As soon as I found myself in the maths department, and next to the lime green door, the sign 'M5' hanging desperately onto the wall, I straightened myself up and took a deep breath, as if that was going to take away my pain, or at least, take away the obviousness of it.

"John Watson," was the instant acknowledgement I received, and I gulped loudly. Here we go.

"I would love to pretend that I'm excited to see you for the first time in four months," the woman spoke, too slowly and sophisticated not to sound painfully patronizing. "Unfortunately I'd rather you not be here if _I_ have to make appointments with _you_." She strode towards me, and looked down into my eyes. Obviously she had to make an effort to pull a disappointed face; I could practically see the hate burning in her eyes, the flames of pure anger from the pits of hell. It took a hard bite to the cheek and all the inner strength I had not to splutter with laughter.

"Would you like to stay in this class, Mr. Watson?"

That would all depend on whether I would be able to spend time in the same room as my beautiful stranger, of course. A quick scan and I found him at the back of the classroom, in the corner, his eyes looking straight into mine, and a small smile playing on his lips.

_Do not laugh. _

_Do not laugh._

"I... will."

"Then sit!" She slammed her ruler down onto the desk right at the front of the class. Well, I guess I should have been expecting that, but the disappointment at not being able to see my little fantasy boy was immense. I needed to see him. To look into his eyes before he vanishes into thin air once again, and all my hope and happiness going with him.

He could just disappear. He could just be an illusion of the sick mind.

Pulling out my chair as Mrs. I-Can't-Be-Bothered-To-Remember-Her-Name began to drone on was painful, and I hissed quietly. I switched arms quickly so as my bad shoulder wouldn't have to do any hard work, but I'm not sure how smooth it was, really. Probably not at all, knowing me. I sat, and something crunched beneath me, and I decided that if it meant not having to endure the pain of the lesson for two seconds less, I might as well admire the forgotten packaging before knocking it straight off my chair. I'm glad I did.

A box of paracetamol. I sighed in relief, not worrying about who's it was or where it had been, and ripping the box apart hastily. Inside I found only two tablets which hadn't been taken (which was good enough for me), and a note, scribbled onto a piece of pristine, neatly cut paper. The words read:

_**To John Watson-  
**__**Because I doubt you've had help since the last time we met.**_

Thoroughly checking through a list of _'who?'_ didn't need to happen. It clicked instantly. _"Since the last time we met."_

I dry-swallowed both tablets at once, a trick I'd learnt in the numerous incidents where I was thrown into a hospital cell, and couldn't quite prevent tears swelling up in my eyes, though I was too dazed to work out why. For the rest of the lesson I did nothing but daydream- and God I'm a looser- about embarrassing, girly thoughts of _this is the boy who saved me and he's so cute and he gave me paracetamol, God he's cute, and we haven't even talked yet but he's so cute, and you can't marry someone when you don't even know their name, but _I_ will, because HE'S JUST SO CUTE... _

I mean I'm not gay. Hell no. But. He's just. You know.

So, anyway the bell went fairly quickly, but I was never able to join in with the barging, fighting gangs of boys, desperate to triumph in the race to the outside world, so I let everyone through, one by one, until everyone had disappeared. Even Mrs. I-Can't-Be-Bothered-To-Remember-Her-Name had made her exit, and I found myself alone. Again. Gazing out of the window, I could see only roads: miles and miles of road, millions upon millions of vehicles, and in them people. I wondered if even one of those people had a good heart. I highly doubted it.

"Do you feel any better?"

The voice sent a wave of distress over me. _What do I say? What do I do? What if I look stupid?_

"You look good." Heat rose up my face and I turned away. It took me longer than necessary to realize that he wasn't answering the question in my head, but his own. Because I hadn't bothered to answer.

_Don't stand there._

_Say something!_

"T-thank you," I stuttered, my back still towards him, and mentally cursed almost before I had said it. Stuttering is a sign of weakness. You are not weak. You are... are-

"It was my pleasure. Someone as strong as you shouldn't have to put up with... um," he paused for a moment, as if was at a loss for words. A loss for words. With me. I mentally slapped myself- he was probably just a slow talker. Maybe he stutters. That must be it.

"With what you have to put up with," he finished quietly. That voice. Dark but gentle. Rough but somehow comforting. Turning to face him was the most terrorizing experience, but I would have given the world the see what I saw. Taller than I had imagined he would be; he was so tiny years ago. Meaning, he was taller than me, but he was still small. Now he's just... woah. And it wasn't just his height, either. The little stick insect had filled out- not immensely, he was still very thin, but at the same time, very strong, muscles obvious in his arms, and through his shirt I could see them too. Obviously it was the shirts fault though. _It's s__o tight_, I thought, followed by a quick, _that's what she said_, to diffuse my own tension a little.

I'm not certain whether or not I couldn't stop looking because one of those buttons was threatening to pop into my eye, or because he really just was fit. But whatever the reason, he caught me staring and coughed a laugh.

"W-what?" I asked defensively, crossing my arms and staring at my shoes.

I barely heard his whispered answer of, "Nothing," as he began to move past me. His hand brushed mine as he disappeared, like ice to burning coal, and I gasped at the shock. Footsteps found their way to the door, and I found myself turning on my heel, and begging the boy to, "Wait!"

_Great, John. Now you've done it._

Watching the boy poised at the door was like admiring a statue of a Greek God, carved into ice over billions of years. And I say ice rather than gold because, despite his obvious strength, there was something about him that just seemed, well, fragile. An air of coldness to hide... something. God knows what. This is _him_ we're talking about, I suppose. The boy's eyes were glued to the door, his hand pressed against the handle, ready to jump into action at any given second. "What's your name?"

He turned his head then, to gaze at me across the room. I forced myself not to turn away or back up this time. I would meet him where he met me. "The name's Sherlock Holmes," he spoke softly, and though his face would let nothing on, his eyes glinted with something like pleasure. And hope.

"Thank you, Sherlock. For everything."

Sherlock blinked a few times, seemingly unfazed, and didn't bother to respond as he swept out of the door, leaving more unanswered questions hanging in the air, like a shower of needles ready to fall on me, to draw blood, leaving tiny red lines until I am eventually being ripped apart, needle, by needle, by needle. I wasn't certain I could live without this boy: now that he had found me again, it seemed impossible for me to so easily let him slip through my fingers. On the other hand, I was even less certain that he would seriously consider befriending me, after everything that has happened.

Yet, as he had turned his head away, I could have sworn that I saw his lips turn up very slightly at the corners._ It could just be my imagination. Or it could be a sign that I'm wrong._

_For the sake of my own sanity_, I decided, _let's stick with the latter. For now, at least._

_For now._

* * *

So guys, first chapter anD I'M SO SORRY ABOUT THE BIT WITH JIM I SWEAR NO SPOILERS INTENDED BUT IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN I MEAN AS IF SHERLOCK WILL ALLOW IT WHEN HE FINDS OUT. UM NO.

Anyway, first chapter. Yeah. Um. So. I wrote this while I was off school ill and am currently writing the second chapter now because CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS (WOOP WOOP) !

Please tell me if there's anything I can improve on- criticism is always welcome. I'm only doing this to improve my writing skills anywayzzz :) And thanks for reading!


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